


The Night Was Also Moist

by shiphitsthefan



Series: SPN Coldest Hits [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bisexual Dean, Bottom Dean, Butt Plugs, Dom/sub Undertones, First Kiss, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex in the Impala, there's always time for lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn’t get laid to get off; he does it because of the high he gets when he’s responsible for someone <i>else</i> getting off. Now, however, there’s no one on the receiving end but Dean “No, seriously, I don't bottom, no way” Winchester. His ass is in the air, and he’s pushing down his jeans, and it’s cold, and it’s dark, and it feels suspiciously like eighth grade all over again. Except this time, instead of Danny from up the block, Dean “It’s not you, dude, it’s just that my ass is a one-way street” Winchester is about to get fingered by the guy he’s in love with.</p>
<p>In love with <i>hunting</i> with, of course. That’s what he means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Was Also Moist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [relucant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/relucant/gifts).



> I wrote, I edited, I posted. Enjoy!

The night was dark and stormy, rain pounding against the window like wet, dead fingers begging to be let inside, the blackness around him only disturbed by a flash of lightning. He buried his head in his hands, shivering and flinching when the thunder rolled.

“What have I done?” he murmured to himself, over and over again. “What the hell have I done.”

“It was the only way, Dean,” Castiel told him. Because it was. Absolutely. There was no other way whatsoever.

Castiel’s inner train of thought coughed suspiciously.

“How am I supposed to fight like this?” asked Dean, adjusting his jeans, obviously uncomfortable. “I can’t even fuckin’ _walk_ right.”

“This is a demonic presence we’ve never been faced with before. We must take any and all precautions against possession.”

Dean scoffed. “I have the tattoo, and I have you. This--this--” He looked over his shoulder and downward pointedly. “Unnecessary.”

“We can’t risk it,” Castiel said, flattening himself against the wall as Dean’s hand pressed into his chest. “There’s too much at stake, and this method is foolproof.”

“So your dad’s kinky,” mumbled Dean as he looked around the corner. “Ain’t that some shit.”

“This is hardly the time or place for this conversation.”

“And yet it’s apparently time for hardness in other places.”

_“Dean.”_

He rolled his eyes and ignored Castiel, raising his gun up beside his head, barrel toward the ceiling. By his count, there were four of the bat-winged creatures in the other room. They’d constructed a large nest out of what appeared to be--Dean squinted in the dim light--boxers.

“Cas, does the parabola--”

“Popobawa.”

“Sure, whatever.” Dean grimaced and shifted his weight from right to left, trying to get comfortable. “Do these assho--” He grimaced harder. “Do these demons take trophies from their victims?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” said Castiel, whose eyes absolutely didn’t shift.

“Then how do you know that--”

Castiel put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You’re just going to have to trust me, Dean.”

“I do, Cas, really,” Dean told him, sighing. When one of the popobawa turns its single massive eye in their direction, he ducked his head back around the wall, flattening himself as Cas had done. “I just wasn’t expecting it to be such a big...uh. Y’know. Deal.”

“Your safety is paramount.”

“Okay, but what about my--”

“It is not of import,” said Castiel dismissively.

“It sure as fuck _feels_ of import.”

Castiel sighed heavily. “You have no doubt seen the girth of the popobawa’s vestigial limb,” he said, looking at Dean.

Dean glared.back. “This feels less like protection _from_ it and more like making room _for_ it.”

They stood there staring at each other for several painfully long seconds. The longer they waited, however, the more uncomfortable Dean became. From what he’d been told, it wasn’t supposed to hurt. He’d done a good job of hiding his discomfort on the drive over--especially from Sam, who’d been smirking even as they dropped him off outside the shaman’s lair--but it had been so long since Dean placed it. There was nothing enjoyable about this, at all.

Castiel narrowed his eyes, but not unkindly. “Dean,” he began, “are you alright?”

“No, I am very un-alright!” Dean hissed, lowering his weapon. “I have a rubber bullet shoved up my ass!”

“Silicone,” corrected Castiel. “The sigil wouldn’t have stuck to rubber; the tome was very specific. Are you certain you used enough lubrication?”

“Fuck, Cas, I don’t know. We were kind of in a rush to leave because we thought they had another victim. You’d think your--your _specific tome_ would’ve mentioned that they can shapeshift.”

“You could do serious damage without proper lubricant.” Castiel looked concerned, and perhaps a bit guilty. But not _too_ guilty. After all, this had been the only way. This had been completely, entirely necessary.

Castiel’s inner train of thought coughed again, no less suspiciously.

“I just…” Dean hesitated, biting his lip. “I’m not exactly used to being _moist_ down there, so I only used enough to...well. Um.” Dean blushed, a faint pink that crept up his neck and turned his ears red in the lone beam of light that shone through a hole in the roof. “Enough to get it in.”

“I see.” Castiel considered the situation for a moment, then said, “We need to get back to the Impala.”

“We’re kinda in the middle of a stakeout here,” said Dean, “in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“And you were correct in your earlier assessment. Fighting will be difficult for you in your current state.” Castiel looked everywhere on Dean’s face except into his eyes. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

If Dean had flushed pink before, he was outright scarlet now. “I don’t need help with my--Jesus Christ, with my _butt,_ okay?”

“Apparently, you do,” Castiel said. “It will be easier for me to make adjustments than for you to do so yourself.”

Castiel’s inner train of thought coughed so hard that it suspiciously derailed. There were no survivors.

Dean stood there, heart pounding in his chest, because this was a _horrible_ idea, a _terrible_ idea, the _worst idea ever_. But Dean has never been one to make good choices, so he finally nodded shakily. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, let’s just…” Dean sighed in defeat. “Let’s go get this over with.”

 

* * *

 

If he ever runs into a time god again, Dean is going to go straight back to the moment he agreed to do this and punch himself in the face. Repeatedly. He probably won’t stop.

After some awkward negotiating of the backseat, and some equally-awkward explanation as to why Castiel had a tube of Astroglide in the pocket of his coat, Dean is face-down in the leather. It’s not that he’s never been on his hands and knees in the back of the Impala before, but there’s usually someone underneath him, because Dean Winchester doesn’t bottom. Period. End of discussion.

Furthermore, Dean “Did I mention that I don’t bottom?” Winchester doesn’t have impersonal sex. If he’s going to fuck someone, then he wants to see their face and gauge how well he’s doing. Dean doesn’t get laid for himself; he does it because of the high he gets when he’s responsible for someone _else_ getting off.

Now, however, there’s no one on the receiving end but Dean “No, seriously, I don’t bottom, no way” Winchester. His ass is in the air and he’s pushing down his jeans--until they get stuck on his thighs, anyway--and it’s cold and it’s dark and it feels suspiciously like eighth grade all over again. Except this time, instead of Danny from up the block, Dean “It’s not you, dude, it’s just that my ass is a one-way street” Winchester is about to get fingered by the guy he’s in love with.

In love with _hunting_ with, of course. That’s what he means.

“Dean,” Castiel says behind him, “I need you to relax.”

“Should I turn my head and cough?” Dean asks snarkily.

“I fail to see what purpose that would serve.”

“Will you just do whatever it is you need to do so we can go back and kill these sons of bitches?”

“If you insist,” and Castiel pulls out the plug without any further ado. It makes a hideous, fleshy _pop_ as it comes free, which is good, because Dean is making a hideous noise of his own. “I did tell you to relax.”

_“jesusfuckingchristsonofashitonabiscuit”_

“Maybe it would be best for you to take my advice going forward.”

Dean’s clenching harder than he’s ever clenched in his life. “Who died and made you the authority on butt stuff?” he asks through teeth that are also clenched.

Castiel doesn’t answer his question. Instead, he tells Dean to, “Turn over.” It doesn’t sound like an order, though, which is probably for the best, as Dean wouldn’t follow it. His voice is soft, gentle, completely antithetical to their current situation.

“We don’t have time--”

“Yes,” says Castiel, “we do. Turn over, Dean.”

It would be a mood-changer elsewhere, Dean thinks. Maybe if they were in an actual bed--not that Dean’s ever thought of them in a bed together, because he hasn’t. But where they are is the cramped backseat of a car, parked in front of an old abandoned warehouse full of demons with one eye, wings, and enormous dicks. This is light years away from softcore pornography.

He turns over, or at least, he tries to, but his pants are doing nothing but hindering progress. Eventually, after Castiel manages to elbow Dean in the eye and Dean accidentally kicks him in the stomach, they get Dean settled on his back. Dean just thought it was awkward before. Now he has nowhere else to look but up at Castiel. It’s a little like being pinned, Dean thinks; he certainly _feels_ frozen enough.

Castiel smiles slightly and cups the side of Dean’s face. “You don’t need to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Dean splutters, because he isn’t. That would be more ridiculous than jamming a dildo of demonic protection up his ass. Castiel’s hand is soothing though, and okay, maybe Dean was shaking before. “I’m a grown-ass man approaching forty who’s been on literally every plane of existence and killed probably thousands of monsters and I’m not afraid of you putting your finger up my butt.”

Dean absolutely doesn’t lean his cheek into Castiel’s palm. That would also be ridiculous. Castiel is running his thumb along Dean’s brow and toward his temple, though, which _isn’t_ ridiculous, maybe even borderline _awesome._ He definitely doesn’t make a noise of complaint when Castiel stops and moves his hand away.

“I don’t think you were stretched enough,” Castiel says. “Nor did you use proper lubrication.”

“I’ve never done anything even anally-adjacent before, alright? There was one attempt, one time, and I never went through another backdoor.”

“You watch pornography.” Castiel’s eyebrow is quirked up, like he’s amused.

“Nothing with--with butts in it. I mean, it’s gross up there and shit.” He pauses, licks his lips, and adds, “There’s also shit.”

“Actually,” begins Castiel, “the odds of encountering fecal matter during anal play is very slim.”

“Cas,” says Dean, trying not to gag, “please never use the phrase ‘fecal matter’ again.”

“Regardless of terminology, spit is an insufficient lubricant.”

“There wasn’t ti--”

**“Dean.”** He swears to Chuck that Castiel’s using his smiting voice. **“There is** **_always_ ** **time for lube.”**

“...Okay,” Dean agrees, because he doesn’t want angry angel anywhere near his asshole.

Castiel, satisfied that Dean will use more than spit in the future--not that Dean is ever, ever, _ever_ doing this again--squirts an intimidating amount of Astroglide onto his finger. “Now relax,” he says, and then there’s a cold finger pressing slowly into Dean, and he’s tensing every muscle out of embarrassment, and his eyes are closed as tightly as possible, and his fingernails are biting into his palms, and if the earth could just swallow him up right now, that would be fine, and--

\--and there are lips on his, chapped and dry and rough. It’s chaste, barely a kiss, more a gesture of reassurance, but Dean never thought he’d even get this much. Not that he’s thought about it because, like the bed in a motel, he’s never thought about Castiel kissing him, not once, and--

“Yes,” says Castiel against his mouth. “Yes, Dean, you have. Quite a bit, actually. It’s extremely distracting.”

Dean swallows. “I thought I told you to stay outta my head.”

“Then you should start denying yourself more quietly.”

He finally opens one eye and looks up at Castiel. “Okay,” he mutters, “maybe I was a little scared.”

“I know.”

“Not of the--the anal thing. I mean, that, too, but mostly the whole fucking things up...thing.” Dean sincerely hopes he can get through the rest of the night without using the word ‘thing’ again. Or ‘anal’. ‘Fecal’ is right off the damn list.

Castiel is smiling widely. “I was, too,” he admits. “Even though I knew. But we can talk about that later, when we aren’t…” Castiel’s smile falters. “I regret that this is our first time. I’m also uncertain that we should be discussing long-time romantic feelings when my index finger is penetrating you. These are hardly ideal conditions.”

“Well then tell me about what _would_ be,” suggests Dean. He shrugs as much as he’s capable of doing in his current position. “I dunno, maybe it’ll help with the whole relaxing thi--I mean, maybe it’ll help me relax.”

“Alright.” Castiel kisses Dean’s forehead, and that’s not something he ever thought he’d enjoy, but it makes his stomach flop. “We wouldn’t be in a car,” he says, and Dean closes his eyes again, tries to concentrate on Castiel’s words and not the weird intrusive prodding. “You’re most comfortable in your room at the bunker, so we would be there. I would kiss you,” and he does, harder this time, firmer, his lips moistened but still rough.

Dean gets lost in it because this is one of the best kisses he’s ever had. He’d known Castiel would be a good kisser from watching him with Meg all those years ago, but that was a sexual kiss. Castiel may be stroking his inner walls right now-- _How are there literally no non-mortifying phrases for what’s going on right now?_ Dean wonders--but the kiss is nothing but love and longing. Passionate. Lustless.

It’s perfect.

“What else?” he asks, and Dean sounds breathless even to himself. “Where all would you kiss me?”

Castiel leans in next to his ear and asks, “Where would you like me to kiss you?”

Dean moans for the first time since all of this started back in the bathroom at the motel, when he’d stuck a finger inside himself for the first time all but dry. Castiel’s finger is slick and sure, not fumbling like Dean’s was. It actually feels...maybe not _good,_ but definitely not _bad._

“My neck,” says Dean. “Neck’s a good spot.” And Castiel’s lips are there--behind his ear, under his jaw, on his pulse. Dean bites his lip. “Teeth are good,” he tells him. “I like--” He gasps when Castiel’s teeth graze the top of a collarbone. “Oh God, yeah.”

“Should I mark you?” Castiel asks, and Dean didn’t think his voice could possibly get any lower or gravelier. His cock twitches for the first time. “Do you like others knowing you’re used, Dean?”

_“Fuck.”_

Castiel chuckles as he withdraws his finger, going for the lube again. “Is that a yes?”

“That’s a please,” says Dean. He still hasn’t figured out what to do with his hands; he’s not really sure there’s room _to_ do anything with them, not with two grown men in the backseat. Well, two grown male bodies, at least.

“Do you like saying please?” Castiel asks, and Dean almost doesn’t notice that he’s using two fingers now. It burns a bit, but nothing like when he was preparing himself for the plug earlier. As awful as it was, the plug probably did help ease the way now.

“Rules are good.”

Castiel hums in acknowledgment. “What about this?” he asks, scissoring his fingers. “Is this good?”

“It’s...different,” Dean admits.

“What about this?” Castiel pushes in deeper before crooking his fingers up, and Dean outright shouts. “I’ll take that as a yes, too.”

Dean’s mind blanks; his vision goes blurry. At some point, he puts a hand on the car door behind him and starts pushing down, meeting Castiel’s fingers. Castiel moves on to three, and Dean bites his hand so hard to stay quiet that he can taste blood in his mouth. His dick is leaking onto his stomach, and Dean’s never been wet like this--Castiel says something about glandular stimulation and then Dean stops listening.

There’s finally a hand on his cock; it might even be his, but it could be just about anybody’s right now and Dean wouldn’t care. He feels fucking fantastic, and he can’t remember why he didn’t want to do this in the first place, though he vaguely recalls a discussion about fecal matter, but he doesn’t give a shit about shit right now. Dean’s whole body is electric, and Castiel’s voice is in his ear telling him to come--

“Close,” Dean says, “‘m so close, Cas.”

“Let me see you. Let me see you come undone by my hands for the first time.”

\--and it’s like Dean’s whole body exhales at once. His eyes open, and his mouth opens, his fingers and toes all stretch and Castiel is beaming at him like Dean’s the goddamn sun. It’s cheesy and dumb and Dean loves every fucking second of it.

Castiel takes his fingers out, and Dean grabs his wrist and tries to put them back in.

“‘S too empty,” he explains, and Castiel is laughing now.

“We did this to make the plug comfortable, Dean. Remember?”

“Do now.”

Castiel slides the plug back in, and Dean’s sensitive now, but in a pleasant way. He’s full and wet and ready for later and if his refractory period was even _close_ to what it used to be--

“Your recovery time doesn’t matter,” says Castiel. “I can fix that.”

“Fuck, angel. You’re gonna kill me.”

“I highly doubt that.” Castiel kisses him again, and Dean wishes they could spend the rest of the night necking in the back of his car like teenagers. “Better than before?”

“What?”

“The plug. Does it feel better now?”

Dean nods, still trying to catch his breath, still floating in the afterglow.

Castiel eases himself out of the car and into the rain, then holds his hand out to Dean. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” says Dean, panting and covered in his own cum and smiling so hard it almost hurts. “Hell yeah. Let’s go kill some dick demons.”

 

* * *

 

A few days and several dozen orgasms later, Castiel finally admits, "We could have drawn the sigil on your underwear, instead."

Dean, too fucked out to respond, flips him off.

"I refuse to apologize for the subterfuge," continues Castiel. "It might otherwise have taken us another apocalypse or two to establish a romantic and sexual relationship."

Dean, still too fucked out, as he will be for the foreseeable future, gives him a thumbs up.

No, he can't fight like this. Dean _certainly_ can't walk right. But that's okay. Now's as good a time for retirement as any.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for [SPN Coldest Hits](http://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/) this month was "[Writer's Block](http://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/148681056700/augusts-prompt-posting-dates-20-23-of-august)." We all had to write a fic with the same title and the same first two paragraphs. I thought I had until the 25th; turns out I had until the 23rd at 11:59pm PDT. So I wrote this in three hours. Woo!
> 
> I am now a tired Ship.
> 
> If you're wondering where the Butt Plug of Anti-Demonic Possession came from, it's entirely Relucant's fault. She made [this post](http://relucant.tumblr.com/post/149338578388/relucant-okay-look-somebody-completely), and I ran with it.
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence, even though it's a Coldest Hits fic. I don't play to win; I play to make a non-crack fic out of a ridiculous prompt. <3


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